


Victory Is In Your Veins

by FieryPen37



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Exploring Essos, F/M, Gladiator-esque, Jon is taken as a slave, No White Walkers, The timeline is all messed up, Trained as fighter in the fighting pits, World Travel, but bear with me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2019-08-02 04:03:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16297796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FieryPen37/pseuds/FieryPen37
Summary: As he tries to return to the Night's Watch, Jon is taken and sold to slavers. A fighter sent to fight to the death in a pit worse than the seven hells. Meanwhile, Daenerys is recovering from betrayal in Qarth and planning her next move toward the home she longs for.





	1. The Wound

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU that finally took on some steam. Waking-dreams-of-harmony prompted me forever ago with a similar prompt. I know, I know, I already have several other WIPs, but this one was fun to start.

Victory Is In Your Veins

Chapter 1

 

Jon woke to pain. A pounding pain in the back of his head, a throb in his thigh, another in his shoulder. Along with the pain came grief. _Ygritte_. As the Free Folk approached the Wall, Jon returned to the man he’d always been: a man of the Night’s Watch and son of Eddard Stark. And Ygritte, the wildling girl who cajoled and teased and shoved him into loving her . . .

 

_“He’s a crow! He’s always been a crow!”_ Noise. A woman’s harsh voice. Tormund’s deep bellow.

_“Take him! Kill him!”_

The wet squelch as he shoved Longclaw through Orell.

Sharp eagle talons shredding his face.

Ygritte’s eagle-sharp blue eyes, tears falling as she drew her bow.

The bay horse’s stride faltered, Jon didn’t even see the blow that felled him. Then . . . then there was nothing. Only a red-black darkness, sickening vertigo, a nauseating lurching.

_“Where’s the sword? It’s Valyrian steel!”_ Numb fingers clenched around Longclaw. Another blow smote his face. A sickening crunch and the hot trickle of blood down his mouth. Jon’s fingers loosened and the sword slipped from his grasp. He mourned the loss. Since he’d been gifted the sword, it grew to be a part of him. _I’m sorry, Lord Commander._

 

Jon cracked open one eyelid. Wooden slats greeted him, the familiar rumble of wooden wheels on a gravel road. _A cart?_ Even that proved too exhausting, and he slipped back into blood-warm darkness. He reached for Ghost, missing his quiet, unassuming company. There was the faintest white glimmer on the edges of his thoughts, but too far away. So far . . .

 

Rough laughter woke him.

“Nice of you to join us, your lordship!” the face of a dirty man Jon didn’t recognize swam before his blurred vision. He blinked, confused. The man wasn’t wearing a wildling’s motley furs, but ragged homespun. His eyelids felt so heavy . . . The man reached and stuck his finger into the arrow wound in Jon’s shoulder, dirty fingernail biting deep. Pain was a hot, sharp jolt. Jon cried out, straining against the leather cords binding his hands and feet together.

“I need you to stay awake now, bastard. Oh yes, those wildling scum told me all about you. The pretty bastard with the Valyrian steel sword.” The finger dug deeper, and Jon felt hot blood dampen the grimy furs he wore. His flesh shrieked in pain. He clenched his jaw around another cry.

“I’m—I’m a man of the Night’s Watch. If you go to Castle Black, they’ll ransom me,” Jon spat the words around the pain. His voice was dry, reedy. The man removed his finger, wiping the blood on Jon’s clothes. He threw his head back to laugh, a shrill, harsh sound, revealing several rotted teeth. The man had a pointed chin, a long, pointed nose, like a rat’s. Jon scowled in disgust.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? ‘Take me to Castle Black!’ he says. They’ll behead me before I could get a word in. No, we’re headed to Eastwatch, pretty bastard.”

 

Jon loathed the cart. Its bed was padded with a thin layer of straw, which jabbed him through his ragged furs and itched horribly. The cold penetrated his very marrow. Beneath the open sky, the intermittent rains and snow left him soaked and chilled. He hated this _fucking_ cart. Its wheels caught every stone or pothole and his wounds complained with each jolt.

As time passed with Jon blinking away stray flakes of snow, he sought to anchor himself from the monotony of travel. Under his breath, he named off the great houses of Westeros and their house words, hearing Maester Luwin’s voice in his inner ear. He rattled off every animal he knew, every herb, every name, every lineage. Jon slept and woke, ate the jerky thrown to him by the Rat, and slept again in unending motion and pain. When the cart did stop, he relieved himself as best he could manage. He refused to simply lie in his own filth. Each attempt left him trembling and sweating with fatigue. By the fourth day—or was it the third?—he could barely feed himself. 

As the cart lurched on, Jon turned his thoughts to sigils. The image of the Targaryen banner rose in his mind’s eye. Black cloth, sinuous and liquid as ink, stitched with image of a crimson dragon. Muscular, rippling, as if alive. _Fire and Blood_. Tongues of red, flickering at the wind’s touch. The _fire_! Heat assaulted him, as if his marrow had been replaced with the molten blood of the earth. Through cracked lips and with a leaden tongue, he said, “Water. I need water.” The Rat ignored him.

Jon clawed at the furs, allowing the wind and snow to baptize him in sweet relief. He opened his mouth, catching stray flakes on his sticky tongue. The pain in his shoulder and leg were like second heartbeats, louder and more insistent than the one in his chest. His broken nose throbbed, the cuts on his face felt raw. He curled onto his side, wracked by chills. Cold. So cold. His teeth chattered in his skull. The furs were soaked, freezing. He wormed beneath the straw like a grub trying to escape the harsh sun.

“Help me,” Jon whispered. His captor, his brothers, his gods, all far away, deaf to him. The wind howling in his ears was his only answer.

The cart jostled hard, wooden wheels clattering on cobblestones. He struggled to open his eyelids against the sharp cold night, wincing at the sudden writhing brilliance of torches. Harsh male voices, rough hands hauling him from the cart. All of it felt far away, as if he were already a shade.

“What a bloody mess! What am I to do with this?”

“Is he dead?”

“Seven hells, he stinks!”

The hands grasping him yanked his shoulder and hot pain tore through him, anchoring him to his body. Jon howled, cracked lips bleeding, his voice raw and aching. He screamed and fought until darkness took him.

 

A low, mellow voice singing woke him. Where was he? Where was the Rat taking him? Could he loosen these bonds? The thoughts proved too heavy for him to bear, so he lost himself in the hoarse undulations of the man’s voice. He heard the faint chime of poured water. A dry, burning ache flared to life in his throat. He licked cracked, bloody lips.

Jon opened his eyes. The small timber room was ablaze with dazzling sunlight, stabbing his eyes. He shut them, pierced by the clean warmth that surrounded him after so many long days of lack and suffering. He must have slept, for when he opened his eyes again, night had fallen, a fire casting leaping shadows on the rough-hewn ceiling. Dimly, he realized he was clean. The furs had been replaced by a simple wool tunic, he was still bound, and the pain was better. This time, Jon found strength enough to turn his head.

A long-robed man with a gleaming bald pate stood with his back to Jon, stoking the brazier.

“Water,” Jon croaked. The man turned and Jon narrowed his eyes. He was dressed in the black robes of a maester, but wore no chain. His suspicion amused the other man, for he chuckled.

“Highhanded for one in your position, aren’t you? What’s your name?” he asked. His was the voice he’d heard singing, as mellow as brown ale. Jon scowled. The false maester jiggled the water jug in front of Jon’s face, wearing a smug grin. A bloody bully, just like Allister Thorne and Rast.

“If you want to drink, you’ll have to learn to behave. Now, your name?”

Jon deliberately lifted his gaze to stare at the ceiling. As he did so, he glimpsed Longclaw leaning against the far wall. The craven chuckled.

“Suit yourself, but defiance won’t do you any favors when Vogaro lo Morrgys arrives.” His sour bulk leaned over Jon, inspecting his nose and the wounds to his face. Jon flinched, testing the slack on the bonds. The cords had been traded for leather cuffs around wrist and ankle tethered by coarse rope to the plank bench he laid on. Thick belts strapped him down across waist and chest. Jon swallowed, his burning throat already regretting his petty defiance. At least he could breathe through his nose without pain.

“The cuts will scar, but your nose should heal nicely.”

The man peeled aside the tunic. Jon clenched his jaw hard. How long would he have to endure this man pawing at him? The puncture of Ygritte’s arrow was only two neat stitches, as was the wound to his thigh.

“I’ve seen worse. You’re healing nicely.” The false maester’s fingers trailed along Jon’s thigh, making his skin crawl. His hands curled into white-knuckled fists. At least the Rat had only been negligent.

“When will this man arrive?” Jon asked.

“Dawn. Can’t be caught by patrolling crows, hmm?” the man said, flicking the hem of the tunic back down. Some of the tension bled from Jon, his mind whirring.

Eastwatch, on the Narrow Sea. Easy enough for a ship to sail north from the Free Cities. There was no reason for his captors to tend him unless . . . he shuddered at the thought. _Unless they wished to_ sell _him_. How was it so easy? Being the son of a great house, a man of the Night’s Watch, born free—though a bastard—it meant nothing if men like these still existed in the world.

This Morrgys would wish to inspect him, surely, maybe see if he could fight. They would loosen the bonds then. It was his only chance to escape. Jon grasped onto the thought with both hands, mooring his hopes to it. The alternative didn’t bear thinking of. Mercifully, the false maester left the room, locking the room with a crank of an iron key. In his solitude, Jon pondered his options. Longclaw may as well be on the other side of the world for all the help it offered at the moment.

Jon flexed his right arm, straining against the cuff. It held, obstinate. _A week in a bloody cart did me no favors_. Jon tested the bonds at his feet. No luck. Then the left arm . . . at his third determined pull, the bond gave just an inch. There was a faint jingle of iron. The cuffs were tied to rings on the plank. Jon sank back, panting. Just that meager effort exhausted him. A glance at the window found it still deep dark, likely the hour of the wolf. He had time enough to try. He had to. He had only one chance.

“Wake up, pretty bastard! I’ve got a present for you,” the Rat’s whining voice woke him from a thin slumber. Jon’s eyelids snapped open as the key turned in the lock. The soft grey of dawn filtered through the window shutters. _One chance_. He lay still as the Rat and the false maester filed in the room, followed by a squat man with amber-brown skin, a great fist of a nose and a cloud of red-black hair. His wealth was evident in the silver embroidery of his leathers, the jeweled rings on each of his fat fingers. The Rat gave a shrill laugh.

“Look what I have for you, Good Master. A young, pretty crow!” The ‘Master’ scowled down his nose at the Rat, dark eyes scrutinizing. Jon met his gaze unflinchingly, he was a free man to the bone, to the marrow. _Blood of the North. Blood of the Kings of Winter. Now come closer. Closer, now._

“Crow? What is this word?” The words emerged garbled, as if he had marbles in his mouth. He gestured with a whip whose handle gleamed in the brazier’s light, the figure of a grotesque woman with a bat’s wings and scorpion’s tail.

“That is the name some northmen give members of the Night’s Watch, who guard the Wall, Good Master,” the false maester said, with an obsequious little bow. _Worm_.

“I see. You did not lie, he is pretty. Good enough for the pleasure houses of Lys or Yunkai if trained. But you say he’s a fighter?” Jon’s guts froze. Horrors compounded and multiplied. _Pleasure houses?_

“Yes. The wildlings sold him to us after he killed some of their number. And he has this,” the Rat said, picking up Longclaw. The master shrank back from the blade with a hiss.

“Valyrian steel,” The Master spat the words like curses, though his trembling hands closed over the sheath.

“Unparalleled in its sharpness and durability,” he said, touching the steel with a wondering finger. That fat finger touched the white wolf pommel. 

“ _Zokla timpa_ ,” he said, sheathing Longclaw with a sharp snap. He reached into his coat and dropped three heavy pouches on the table.

“For the sword.”

“And the crow?” the Rat asked. The Master glanced at Jon and tossed another pouch on the table.

“Bring him down. I’ll see how he does against my Dothraki. If he loses, I can still sell him in Lys, if he wins, he might have potential,” he said, leaving the room without another word.

Jon took a deep breath. The master had taken his weapon, but he was confident he could overpower the other two men if he caught them surprise.

“Today’s your lucky day, crow!” the Rat said, unbuckling one foot. The false maester slid the tongues of the belts across his torso free.

“I’ll be sad to see you go. We had so little time together,” he said, leering. Jon waited, summoning every bit of his patience. He only had one chance. He couldn’t lunge too early . . . The Rat freed his other foot. The false maester bent to untie his left hand and—Jon surged upright, kicking the Rat hard in the belly. Before the maester had time to cry out, Jon slammed the back of his fist into the man’s face. Jon felt a crunch, and the man fell insensate. Jon untied his right hand as the Rat gasped for air, wheezing for help.

“I guess it is my lucky day,” Jon said, darting behind the Rat and looping his arm around his head. He _squeezed_. The Rat clawed and thrashed beneath him, but as skinny as he was, the blows were ineffectual. Face set in a rictus of effort, Jon squeezed his head until the Rat lay inert. Then the room echoed with only his own harsh breathing.

He waited, straining to hear the thump of coming footsteps. None. Good. Jon snatched the water jug and gulped thirstily. The cold water was sweet relief to his parched throat. He drained it and another jug. Barefoot and unarmed, a quick glance at the two men brought up no options. The Rat was too small and skinny, and the false maester wore sandals. Neither man wore so much as an eating knife. _Seven hells._

Jon slipped from the room. They were in one of the Watch’s abandoned outbuildings, he could tell by the neat builder’s stonework and the air of neglect. Not Eastwatch per se, that was one of the castles still patrolled by the Watch, but nearby. All he needed was a horse, then he could ride hell for leather north. They were still his sworn brothers, after all.

Jon crept soft-footed down the hall, tucking close into a lintel at the faint clatter of footsteps. He didn’t have long until either the Rat came to or the slaver’s guards came sniffing about. Measuring his breathing, Jon waited. Nervous energy sang through his muscles, the stone floor dusty and achingly cold beneath his bare feet. The footsteps came no closer, faintly he heard the rasp of a foreign language through a nearby shutter. Jon exhaled his breath. Not much time now.

He followed the hall, ran into a dead-end, turned back, took another turn, and then another. Another hallway led him to a stairway, curved out of sight. He wasted precious moments deliberating. If he barreled down the stair, he could catch whoever might be below by surprise . . . or raise the alarm in the process. _Might as well chance it, they’re going to find those men any moment_. Jon padded down the stairs, two at a time. He sniffed through his battered nose. Was that . . . ? The room, perhaps once a receiving hall, stood converted to a stable. The humble scent of hay and horse manure made tears prick his eyes. Thanking the gods for at last a stroke of luck, Jon found a shaggy sorrel, tugging hay from a net. Thin and rangy, the sorrel looked fast, energetic.

“Come on now. Let’s go for a ride, yeah?” he whispered, freeing the slip knot with a stealthy tug. The horse followed without demur, allowing Jon to swing astride. No time to rummage for tack, the halter would have to do for a bridle. Jon clicked his tongue, wrapping his legs snug against the horse’s warm sides. Jon ducked beneath the rooftree just as a great shout sounded behind him: “The crow’s escaped! Find him!” 

Jon kicked the sorrel’s ribs, laying the halter lead against his neck to slew him left. Outside there was a sparse courtyard, once there had been a wall encircling the sad ruin of a tower, but now there was only a crumble of mortar. A glance cut behind him found a scrum of movement, a hail of cursing.

A garble of harsh words sounded much closer. From the tail of his eye, Jon glimpsed a galloping warrior through a screen of his flying hair. _Dothraki_. With a shrill, undulating yell, the Dothraki urged his mount close, his black, curved blade cruel in the early light. On instinct, Jon slid down the side of his mount, clinging with all the strength in his legs as the blade parted the air. The blow swung wide and the sorrel cantered through a patch of prickling weeds as Jon righted himself.

A faint twang.

With a squeal, the sorrel crumpled beneath him. Jon landed hard, white bursting behind his eyes. A hard blow on his shoulder and side, then tumbling end over end until he landed on his back. Air wheezed from his lungs. Gasping for breath, Jon rolled to his hands and knees, staggering to his feet. The sorrel lay dead; the bolt took him square between the eyes. Jon whirled around finding the ‘master’ holding a crossbow and laughing. Most galling, Longclaw was sheathed at his fat waist. _That’s mine!_

“Morbo, this Westerosi boy makes you look a fool on your horse! Let’s see what you do with him! If you live, boy, you’ll make me rich!” he shouted.

The Dothraki—Morbo—dismounted his tall dun mount, murder stamped on a thin face. Jon found a chunk of stone, coarse against his palm. He hefted it, testing the sting in his shoulder. Morbo marched through the scrubby brush, his strange half-staff, half-scythe blade twisting in whistling circles. Jon cast a quick glance around, finding the ground sharply slanted, jagged crumbles of masonry scattered about. A poor place for a fight. The Dothraki snarled something in his own tongue, the sound harsh and guttural. _I have only one chance before he hacks me to bits._

“Come on then!” Jon shouted.

With no shield, he had to be faster than the blade. Burning with embarrassment, Morbo would want to end the fight quick and decisive. That might make him sloppy. The Dothraki led with a sharp horizontal sweep, with enough force to take his head clean off. Jon ducked, intending to slam the rock into the other man’s ches---the staff end of his blade smote Jon hard in the ear. Head ringing, blood in his mouth, Jon staggered back. He tripped on a rough stone, landing hard on his arse. Something like amusement lit Morbo’s black eyes, a thin contemptuous smile on his lips. Jon sucked blood from his split lip and spat it in the direction of the Dothraki’s boot. Confident in victory, Morbo raised his blade overhead and—

Jon struck. He kicked out hard, knocking Morbo to his knees. Scrambling fast, Jon reared back and backhanded the Dothraki with his rock. Blood flew in a thin red arch from Morbo’s mouth as he fell. In the dirt, he spat out the bloodied fragment of a molar. The so-called ‘master’ wheezed with laughter, mopping his face with a square of silk.

“Excellent! You _are_ a fighter. You’ll do well in the pits.”

He clapped his hands, and half a dozen men approached from all directions armed with clubs. Gods, how had he not noticed them closing in? Jon took up the fallen Dothraki’s staff-sword. It felt foreign in his hand, but he had to try. He lunged, bringing the blade down on the smallest one. The blade bit deep, slicing clean through the arm.

The ‘master’ laughed as his men bled and died. _No, no, gods no_! One blow smote his shoulder. Snarling, Jon struck out, eviscerating the man who struck him. The sword felt keen and sharp in his hand. Another hail of blows fell on his back, his knee, his head. The world blurred, pain made him half-blind, but he was caught in a hot, red tide of desperation. Denial pounded along with his heartbeat. _No, no, no!_

The last thing he saw was a bloodied Morbo standing over him, looking on with something like pity.

 

~

 

Daenerys beckoned Drogon with a click of her tongue. The hatchling dragon perched on her right shoulder crept down her arm with a prickle of claws. He curled in her palm, his tail wrapped around her wrist. He was getting bigger and heavier with each passing day. Daenerys petted the frilled spikes along his neck.

“Any ideas on how to sail south?” she asked with an arched brow. Drogon flapped his wings, hissing as if to reply. Her children weren’t strong enough to fly yet, so Daenerys tucked Drogon into his enclosure in the cool shadow beneath Qarth’s walls. Dust and sand lay coarse on her tongue. The air smelled strange, like after a lightning strike. Magic left a faint itching prickle on her skin. The warlocks had paid dearly for imprisoning her.

Daenerys smoothed her hands over each of her children, their scales as warm and smooth as sunwarmed river stones, reassuring herself of their solid wholeness. Never in all her days did she want to feel that aching emptiness when they were taken from her. Viserion preened, nestling his head into her hand. Rhaegal snorted, smoke curling from the slits of his nostrils.

“ _Khaleesi_ ,” Rakharo said, swaggering up with his whip coiled over one arm.

“ _Qoy Qoyi_ ,” Daenerys said, “any word from Jorah the Andal?”

“ _Vos, khaleesi_ ,” he said. Daenerys exhaled a breath through her nostrils. Ser Jorah had been sent to the coast to secure a ship over a fortnight ago when she Xaro Xohan Daxos’s hospitality.

“We cannot linger here much longer,” she said, half to herself. Rakharo grunted in reply, swinging astride his black.

“I see to the herd, khaleesi!” he said. A touch of his heel sent the black cantering around their motley caravan. Mixed Dothraki travois housed the people that remained of her khalasar after the Red Waste and Qarth’s duplicity.

Daenerys heaved a sigh, swinging astride her silver. At least their fortunes had improved. True, Doreah’s duplicity with their Qartheen host had led to the murder of Jhiqui and many others, but the richest man in Qarth had not exaggerated his wealth. That, in addition to the horses and gifts pressed upon them by the remaining merchants—eager to see the back of her and thankful for her dragons ridding them of Pyatt Pree. Her Dothraki insisted on adding another braid, though the victory had been Drogon’s.  

When the sun climbed to its zenith and heat rose in colorless ribbons from the ground and still Ser Jorah had not returned, Daenerys gave to command to move out. The shadow of the warlock’s tower gave her a queer feeling in her belly. Piquant and bored, the three of her children cried and scratched at the gates of their enclosure. Having them close was as much an anchor to her as them. Daenerys licked her dry lips, grateful for Drogon’s weight on her right shoulder. Rheagal and Viserion climbed and slithered over her.

“ _Lyks_ ,” she said, stilling her silver’s startled snort with a tug of rein. The gates of Qarth were flown open. Pale faces and watery eyes watched from the shade of their glorious towers as they rode by.

“Milk Men hide like cowards,” Kovarro said, hacking a glob of spit onto the neatly manicured street.

“Would you rather we win free by the skin of our teeth as in the House of the Undying, blood of my blood?” Daenerys said dryly, tossing a flyaway strand of hair from her face. Kovarro’s thick shoulders hunched beneath his warm medium brown skin.

“ _Vos, khaleesi_ ,” he said, chastened. The youngest of her bloodriders, Kovarro was often the most eager to test his mettle. Even his name was derived from the Dothraki word _kovarat_ which meant ‘to stand.’ As such, she could not fault him too greatly. _A man cannot deny what it is in his nature._ The Sand Road stretched out ahead of them, a bleak expanse of crushed reddish gravel. Beyond were endless crags, mountains of scorched red sand, stunted trees, scorpions and snakes. The air tasted of dust and death, even the water bled red. Was she mad to urge her people to face that again? It was a testament to their faith in her that they rode on with scarcely a whimper of protest. 

Daenerys’ belly quavered at the baking heat of the Red Waste as Qarth’s gates slammed closed behind them. She remembered how the heat leeched the strength from her bones, the starving burning thirst that made her head ache and eyes burn. It had been a close thing, before Xaro Xohan Daxos took pity upon her. The void waited, so cool and patient.

“Which way, khaleesi?” Rakharo asked. Daenerys eased back in the saddle, halting the khalasar with a gesture. She drummed her fingers on the pommel of her saddle. The decision held their lives in the balance. Not one made lightly.

“We ride west.” To the next city, and the next. And beyond that, Westeros and home.   

 

 


	2. Zokla Timpa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon sets sail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I am working on Virtue, my friends! Enjoy this offering!

 

Chapter 2

 Zokla Timpa

_Day One: White Wolf_

 

Jon woke to the musical lap of water, a gentle sway. Oh gods, no! A ship! He surged up, catching the length of his bonds at a scant inch. Strapped to a fucking table. _Again_. A single oil lamp swayed overhead in the cramped cabin. Smoke stung his eyes, the smell a faint acrid reek. Jon licked his lips. Dried blood crusted on his lower lip. One eye was difficult to open more than halfway, swollen and tender. Jon flexed and twisted, testing his joints. A diffuse wash of aches and pains, but nothing broken. The door creaked open and Jon forced himself to relax, feign sleep. The heavy tread could only be the man called the master, with some incomprehensible foreign name.

Slow, shallow breathing. Relax. In and out. In . . . and out. In—A dash of cold water on his face made him sputter and curse. Jon shook wet hair from his face, cold water beading in ticklish trickles on his scalp. The man’s amber-brown skin shone in the lamplight, his dark hair teased into a ridiculous pair of horns. His thin smile was cruel. Jon held his gaze steadily.

“You fought well today, boy. Fight like that in the pits and we’ll both be rich men,” he said, his Common garbled. Fat fingers stroked Longclaw’s white wolf pommel sheathed at his hip. Jon’s hands clenched and unclenched, almost able to taste the sturdy leather-wrapped hand-and-a-half hilt. He licked brackish water from his lips. Perhaps the last water he would get. His input was unnecessary, for the man kept talking.

“You Westerosi are so strange and priggish. The Night’s Watch vows? ‘A shield that guards the realms of men?’ And this is why a man cannot lie with a woman as the gods intend? Bah! I did you a favor, boy, no doubt of it. Great fighters in the pits are showered with riches. Glory. Women. Men, if you prefer. Anything you wish.”

“You would make me a slave,” Jon said with a sneer.

The man leaned close, petting Jon’s hair. He smelled of rancid meat and heavy floral perfume. Jon’s gorge rose. His tone was matter of fact: “You _are_ a slave, boy. Make no mistake. Oh yes, I see it in your eyes. ‘If I can only get loose,’ ‘if I can only get a weapon.’ As you did at that pathetic hovel of a castle. It has been tried a thousand times before on this ship. _My_ ship, _The Tears_. I trade in man flesh for a living, as my father and grandfather before me. There is no escape.”

Each word fell like a blow. Clamoring panic clawed like a mad animal in his belly, rattling against the cage of his ribs. Jon swallowed hard, struggling to slow his incensed breathing.

“What is your name, boy?”

Jon clenched his jaw. ‘Fuck you,’ his silence screamed. His name didn’t matter to this man. A slaver had no concept of bastards, or who in seven hells the Warden of the North was. The name Stark meant nothing to him. It meant a great deal to Jon. His name was a tether to the North, to home. To Robb’s smile and mussing Arya’s hair. To Father’s somber grey eyes and Bran’s laugh. It was Sam and Ghost, Longclaw and kidney pie, the music of Winterfell’s water, the smell of the pines and the taste of the Wall’s ice. Precious.

The master chuckled. He trundled toward the brazier in the corner.

“It’s been so long since I’ve had a real challenge in a slave. Morbo, the useless Dothraki you fought, was sold to me five years ago. It took me years to break him. But break he did. As will you.”  The so-called master turned back, brandishing a poker, the tip glowing a dull orange and smoking. Jon gulped, maintaining a steely stare as he approached, expertly balanced against the ship’s pitch.

“Brave. That’s good. That will serve you well in the pits.” He moved closer, the poker hovering over Jon’s face—so close he could feel the heat’s leaden throb. Jon flattened against the table, straining away from the poker. Would the fucker blind him just to prove a point? He couldn’t fight well with one eye . . .

The man flung up the tunic, exposing his cock. Jon squeezed his eyes shut, stifling his quivering lip between his teeth. _I won’t beg. I won’t beg. I won’t--_  

“Hmm, the girls must love you, boy. Pretty face and a thick cock.” The poker hovered, a demon’s finger. It grazed the inner curve of his hipbone. Jon cried out at the searing agony. Sweat slicked his body, pooling in the hollow at the base of his throat. The poker dipped lower, so close Jon could smell it as it burnt his pubic hair.

Through it all, the man’s voice was low and even, in his distorted Common: “I don’t need this part. You can still fight in the pits gelded. I dislike resorting to such measures. More than once a fighter who fails his training still earns me gold when sold to Lysene pillow houses. Men and women alike would pay richly to fuck that thick cock of yours. But you must learn to obey. Your first and simplest lesson. Tell. Me. Your. Name.” His skin throbbed, nerves shrieking in belly-quaking terror. By force of will, Jon kept himself from screaming.

“Jon,” he spat the word through gritted teeth, “Jon Snow.”

The demonic heat ceased. Jon panted, trembling like a newborn foal. The man, his face ghoulishly underlit by the poker, spread in a smug smile.      

“Jon Snow. I am Vogaro lo Morrgys of the famed city of Astapor. You may call me Master. ‘ _Aeksio’._ Say it.”

 “ _Aeksio,”_ Jon repeated, stumbling over the word. Morrgys tossed aside the poker in the brazier.

“I’m glad we understand each other, Jon Snow. You _are_ brave. Most men piss themselves when I bring the poker.” Jon’s gaze fell to Longclaw. The chips of garnet in the wolf’s eyes gleamed dully. _Ghost_ . . . Morrgys’ fat fingers tapped on Longclaw’s pommel, lost in thought.

“Jon Snow is a simple name. Too Westerosi for my audience. I like the mysterious angle. The spectators will gobble it up like sweetmeats. I think we shall call you ‘ _Zokla timpa.’”_

“What does that mean?” Jon asked. Morrgys’s hand shot out. Thick fingers encircled Jon’s throat, exerting enough pressure to make stars burst behind his eyes. Not a single muscle twitched in Morrgys’s face.

“You mustn’t question your master, slave. And if you do, do it properly. Say: What does that mean . . .” he trailed off. Jon was tempted to bite at the sausage-like fingers, taste hot blood before the lash fell. He choked, coughed, straining against his bonds. The grip loosened.

“What does . . . that mean . . . Master?” Jon said. Morrgys patted Jon’s cheek roughly.

“Good boy. It means ‘White Wolf.’”

 

The hours scrolled by after Morrgys took his leave. Light from the porthole faded from the deep darkness of the hour of the wolf to a softer predawn grey. Jon stared at the ceiling, trying to ignore the throb at his hip, the tingle in his fingers from too-tight bonds. The weathered boards creaked, the oil lamp swayed. Beneath a soft shroud of ash, a hot ember settled in his soul. Hotter than anger, a festering deeper than resentment.

No matter how long it took, he would be free again.

And Vogaro lo Morrgys would die looking into his eyes, Longclaw shoved down his fat throat.

It was the Dothraki Morbo and two other brutes who shuffled in after dawn, escorting the healer. The men watched him warily as the untied his bonds. _Are they afraid of me?_ Jon eyed Morbo. His narrow black eyes held Jon’s, gleaming with malice. The type to hold a grudge then. Jon grunted, shaking feeling back into his numbed hands. Morbo stroked the butt of his staff-sword, watching him.

“Master want clean you,” he said in heavily accented Common. Jon nodded. He endured rough hands scrubbed him from head to foot with lye soap and cold seawater, tossing the sweat-soaked tunic in the fire. The healer tisked over his arrow wounds, smeared stinging salve on his eye and hip, and tossed a heap of clothes in his direction.

“He’s all yours, savage,” the healer said to Morbo, “careful with that left shoulder.” Naked and dripping, Jon faced Morbo square. Morbo’s thin face smirked, brandishing a leather collar. A slave’s collar.  _I bested you once, I can do it again._

“Master brand.” _Brand_?

One of the brutes turned from the brazier with a brand. Glowing a throbbing red was the image of a jagged letter M, the size of a silver stag. Jon couldn’t help it. His fists balled. Quivering energy sang through his muscles. He had to try! He struck out with a heavy punch, making one brute crumple. The butt of the staff-sword caught him in the gut. Pain burst red behind his eyes. Jon fell to his knees, wheezing. The brutes stomped on his flailing arms and legs, Morbo sat square on his chest. Stars glittered on the edges of his vision. Jon gasped, sucking in air. The brand descended, searing into the flesh of his heel. Jon howled and thrashed. _A slave_. Gods, they’d made him a slave, branded and collared.

“You are _zafra_. Slave. Save strength for pit,” Morbo said, with his glittering black eyes and thin-lipped smile.

“You will need it.” He roughly patted Jon’s head before levering up off him. Jon heaved himself upright on one leg. The brand burned abominably on his left heel, a loud, red throb. The brutes with Morbo rose, rubbing their sore spots and glaring at him. Morbo dismissed them with a terse command. He leaned against the wall, glaring at Jon with hooded eyes. _Not in a killing mood, I suppose I should be thankful._

 “Where are we going?” Jon wheezed, toweling off with a rough bit of homespun. He stepping gingerly into the trousers, wincing as the cloth dragged on his ankle. The tunic was the same brown cloth, rough but warm. 

“Essos. Pentos.”

_Pentos? That’ll take months!_ Months at sea. Trapped aboard this floating hell. The panic clawed at his throat. He looked out the tiny porthole at the grey sky and frothing endless blue-grey sea. Morrgys was right. Even if he did manage of steal a boat and row away, what then? Maybe he could navigate by the stars, but he would run out of drinking water before reaching shore. He would die on the sea. Quicker if he tried to swim. The cold would kill him. He was trapped, like an animal in a snare. Jon seized hold of the panicked wild thing in his chest, wrestling it down. He would find a way to get free. He _would_.

“And until then?” he asked.

“We train. _Lajat_ ,” Morbo said, producing a waterskin and covered bowl. Thirst flared to life in his throat and he tried to measure the graceless eagerness as the bowl was offered. He couldn’t remember his last meal. The gruel was cold, but rich with grain and salted fish. Without a spoon, he scooped it with eager fingers. Though congealed and salty enough to pickle his insides, Jon didn’t care. It was food. He polished off one bowl and Morbo doled out another. The food was ballast, settling his achingly empty insides.

“ _Vroz_. Slow,” Morbo warned. Jon nodded, accepting the bowl. Jon crunched on pin bones and all, albeit at a slower pace. Since the Dothraki screamer seemed to be in a conversational mood, Jon pressed for more.

“And then?” he asked. Morbo shrugged, his shoulder-length loose black hair rippling.

“You fight in front of man. If good, you earn gifts for Master.” A test. He could manage that. The organizer couldn’t be any worse than Ser Allister Thorne.

“Is that what you did? You fought well?”

Morbo folded his muscled arms over his chest, preening like a colorfully plumed bird. White scars laced his arms and chest. A veteran of many battles.

“Good. _Sek_. I won many fights.”

“And are you a free man?” Thick black brows snapped together.

“Dothraki are no slaves,” he said.

“Nor are Westerosi. Yet here we are,” Jon said, tugging pointedly at the leather collar. Morbo wore one too, though his was thin, beaten brass. Morbo snatched away the bowl and waterskin, despite Jon’s protests.

“Dothraki are no slaves!” he said again, slamming the door shut behind him. Jon heaved a sigh, looking out into the blank empty sea for answers and finding none.

 

~

 

_Day Forty-one: The Dragon Queen_

 

Qarkash wasn’t half as graceful or lovely as its sister city. The Qarkashi were a hair more welcoming, though. Since arriving in the city, not a single warlock had tried to hex her. Daenerys’ chapped lips quirked at the weak jest, squinting into the sunlight glittering on the sea. Watching the lap of the waves was soothing as she waited. She breathed deep of the clean smell of saltwater, listened to the plaintive caw of gulls from astride her silver. Her hair covered with a shawl, her dragons safe with Rakharo, she was free to wait for Ser Jorah. Her loyal bear had been away too long. It made her itch between the shoulder blades, a queer discomfort.

The Red Waste was as evil as she remembered, but with a road and a map, it was not as gruesome as after Drogo died. Dead cities served as lonely waystations for her khalasar, where promised wells could be found. Only three horses died of thirst, and one foolish Dothraki outrider. Her dragons had taken to wing on hot columns of desert air. Open sky and hot sun and abundant lizards nourished them. They grew to the size of small hounds in short order.

A nudge of heel guided her silver away from the beach. Her hooves sank deep in thick reddish sand. The sand had a burnt smell, coarse in her mouth. Scraggling thorny weeds pockmarked the sand before giving way to packed red dirt. Qarkash’s tall, square buildings were made of red brick, though no less graceful for their humble materials. Murals twisted in intricate patterns on limewashed walls. Crowds ebbed and washed around her silver as she made her way toward the market, shadowed subtly by Dothraki guards _. A good thing my money purse is in my belt and not a saddlebag._ In Pentos, as Magister Illyrio’s guest, she made a game of watching pickpockets work. A brush, a light, dexterous touch and a fat money purse fell in their hand. It called for nerves of steel, though, if caught, the cost was their right hand.

The babble of tongues washed over her. Sing-song Lhazareen, guttural Dothraki, lisping Qartheen, and half a dozen more. She saw squat, hairy Ibbenese, Lhazareen herdsmen in gloriously dyed wools, a Tyroshi priest loudly declaiming prayers in his own tongue. Birds of paradise perched on their master’s shoulders, spices perfumed the air beneath colorful carpets. She breathed deep of the scent, smelling cinnamon and dragon peppers and sweat and goat dung. The miasma of a city. Overwhelming and vivid after the arid empty spaces of the Waste.

Daenerys’ eyes scanned the crowds, searching for Ser Jorah’s familiar square shoulders and thinning grey-blond hair. As time trickled through her fingers and still no sign of him, Daenerys’ belly roiled with dread. Her old bear, her dearest friend. Frustrated, she touched her heels to her silver’s sides. With a flick of her tail, her silver broke into a smooth trot. The crowd cursed her, but parted like curtain to clear her path. A snatch of laughter reached her ears, her guards as they loped to keep up.

“Come, silver lady! Come, daughter of Old Valyria!” a female voice hailed her in accented Common.

The words niggled in her inner ear, but Daenerys ignored it, busy pondering their next move. Before melting away like mist under the sun, Ser Jorah spoke of their dearth of soldiers. _‘Slave soldiers can be found in Slaver’s Bay. Astapor, perhaps.’_ And now, thanks to Xaro Xohan Daxos, gold they had in largesse. Overland, the route led north, to the Sand Road, through the Bone Mountains. Treacherous for a party as small and wealthy as theirs. Ripe for the picking of bandits. Gods forbid they come across a khalasar. If not killed outright, they would drag her back to Vaes Dothrak to become a member of the dosh khaleen. It was sacred law. But by sea . . . her Dothraki, fearless in battle, grew pale as milk even now, with the sea lapping gently at their toes.

“Silver lady! Mother of Dragons! I have word from your man! The Westerosi of Bear Island!” the female voice hailed her again. The fine hairs on the back of her neck stiffened despite the heat of the day. Daenerys reined her silver to a stop. Her guards clustered close, hands on their _arakhs_.

“ _Maegi_ ,” Ono said, spitting in the dirt, “Avoid this snake in the grass, _khaleesi_.” Daenerys swung off her silver and handed the reins to Sari.  

“Words are wind, Ono. Let her speak,” she said, ducking into the shop. _I’ve supped my fill of magic, but the puzzle of Ser Jorah must be unraveled._ The red gleam of a lacquered mask struck Daenerys square in the belly. Her mouth went dry. Ono and Sari twitched and cursed in Dothraki behind her.  

“Quaithe,” she whispered. A curt glance found it to be an apothecary’s shop. Jars lined the walls, sealed with wax. Incense curled in sticky white tendrils.

“Mother of Dragons,” the slender woman said with a graceful bow. Garbed in sandsilk as red as blood, she looked like a harbinger of death _. I am blood of the dragon._

“We saw you a moon’s turn ago, in Qarth. How is it you came to be here?” she asked. Her voice was steady, though her hands quivered in the folds of her tunic.

“I came a different way,” the woman said with a dismissive shrug.

“By dragonback, perhaps?”

“Would you spend your questions on the hows and whys of whence I came, The Unburnt?” Daenerys swallowed her ire, squaring her shoulders.

“Very well, then. You said you had word of Ser Jorah,” she said.

“You remember what I told you in Qarth, silver lady? To go west, you must go east. To see the sun you must pass beneath the shadow.” The sticky-sweet incense curled in her lungs, making her dizzy. Daenerys locked her knees to keep from stumbling.

“Yes. Riddles and magic,” Daenerys muttered. Qaithe’s dark eyes gleamed behind the mask. In avarice or amusement, she wasn’t sure.

“Your man of Bear Island has a jealous seed in his heart. His lust will give it water to grow. Tread carefully as you make your way west. A man is waiting for you at the port. His ship has sails of yellow silk.”

Daenerys nodded and thanked her. With a flick of her finger, Sari tossed a small sack of silver onto the table.

“I have no need for silver, my lady. I seek only to protect fire made flesh.”  

Quaithe’s words followed her as she rode from Qarkash and gave the command to break camp. _A jealous seed._    

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The White Wolf finds his way to Essos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay, my friends! Writing time has been sparse and precious.

Chapter 3

 

  _Day Sixty-Eight: The White Wolf_

 

“Again!” Morrgys bellowed. The Dothraki Morbo lunged, armed with his _arakh_. Black steel whistled through the salty air. Jon was ready. He ducked the blow and struck out, his punch just missing Morbo’s ear. The staff end of the _arakh_ had a heavier whistle than the blade. Jon had caught that blow often enough to dodge that one too, though just barely. The Dothraki was _fast_. The pitch of the deck was choppy beneath his bare feet, the sun peeking through thick grey-bellied clouds. The master hadn’t seen fit to arm or armor Jon. As the greenest of Morrgys’ slaves, he must rely on wit and strength. Each blow was a lesson learned.

Jon swept out one leg, knocking Morbo’s legs from under him. He struck quick as a striking snake. Landing one knee hard on his chest, Jon twisted the _arakh_ from his grip and held the razor edge to Morbo’s throat, just beneath the bronze collar. The Dothraki’s black eyes were ablaze with hate, tinged with something colder. _Fear_. It was the third time Jon had disarmed him today. Morrgys’s disgust was palpable. The string of invective was still incomprehensible to Jon, but he caught the words ‘weak’ and ‘pathetic.’          

In the weeks on this miserable ship—in between retching his guts out over the rail—training began before dawn and did not end until well after the sun had set. Strength training was weights tied to wrist and ankle and being thrown overboard. Jon kept his head above water, choking and sputtering until his lungs felt they would burst and his limbs burned as if the very marrow was afire. Stubborn, he kicked and kicked, choking on seawater. Only when the frigid water closed over him did they tow him back aboard. Meals were salt beef and barley stew with stale brown bread, thin beer and brackish water. Hard massage from indifferent hands worked the aches from his muscles at the end of each day.  A calculated recipe to tear a man down to nothing and build him up again.

Slavery stripped what little softness lingered on his body. Blisters welled and burst on his hands, the soles of his bare feet. Only accomplished slaves wore shoes. Sorefoot, Thicktongue, they called him as they barked orders in bastard Valyrian. Every night curled onto his mean little cot of dirty straw, scratching at flea bites, he counted each welt and bruise. He scratched a tally of the days on the wall, but soon lost track. Morrgys was not opposed to waking them in the wee hours for more drills. The best fighters in the pits were strong, yes, but more important, they were nimble. Morbo delighted in telling him the savageries that occurred during his fights.

“It is not just men in the pits. The best fighters bleed for their masters. Lesser men, _krol_ , will fight beasts. Lions and bears and the like. There are children. One day, I see a bear in the pit. One young boy was drenched in blood, another in honey, another in rotted fish. The crowd wagered on who the bear would eat first.”

Jon’s belly roiled. The scum of the world gathered on cushioned benches, eating sweetmeats while children were torn apart in front of them. He didn’t think it was possible to loathe them any more than he already did.  

“And what are we?” Jon asked. Morbo spat in Jon’s direction.

“‘We,’ _ver_? I am a prized fighter of the blood of old horselords. You are nothing.”

Jon made no reply. Soon, Morbo grew tired of his taunts and left Jon to the creaking silence of his cell. He understood why the rider hated him, but there was also some strange loneliness in the man’s need to snipe at him.

The others were poorer company, Jon supposed. One was a wildling Hornfoot man by the name of Thyyck who spoke maybe three words of Common and none of Valyrian. A hulking man with tiny black eyes and blue tattoos snaking down his arms, Thyyck in Morbo’s words was ‘worm-meat.’

Two brutes, tall with shaved heads and pierced noses, Morbo called the Twins, though by Jon’s estimate they were not related. The Twins were Morrgys’s hands, eyes, and whips. Foremen, of a type. One doled out their porridge and the other was their masseuse at the end of the day. A master, two foremen, plus the crew and captain of _The Tears_. Weapons were locked up, the deck patrolled. Each slave was stripped to the skin for inspection before they could bathe after training. Even the drinking water was under lock and key, all to deter mutiny. Four others trained under Morrgys at different intervals, so Jon saw little of them. One was squat and bearded, Norvoshi, if Morbo was to be believed. Two more were water dancers from Braavos, and the last a Dothraki from another khalasar.

So the days and weeks bled together.

 

Jon woke to the heavy tread of sailor’s feet on the deck overhead. He sat up, stretching aches from his muscles. Blearily, he realized the sun was fully risen. There was no porthole in his cell, but the air was warmer, and gods, was that the call of birds? His heartbeat quickened. _Land_. Were they near a port? Why hadn’t he been woken? The master was a creature of habit, a slave to routine. Had Morrgys had an apoplexy in his sleep? The gods would be too kind to the likes of him were it so. Jon stood to peer beneath his door. Sure enough sunlight peeked through the boards. Jon waited. Time dilated. Jon paced. They were heading south under a strong wind. He unfurled a map in his mind’s eye. South from Eastwatch-By-The-Sea was the wide mouth of the Shivering Sea, then the Neck, the Vale of Arryn. And to the east . . . Braavos!

“That’s it,” Jon said aloud. A slaver’s ship would have to tread carefully around that particular Free City. Founded by escaped slaves, there was little Braavosi despised more. Jon was tempted to scream and beat at the walls of his cell. It was a fool’s fond hope, though. If a Braavosi patrol ship was within range, Morrgys would loose his slaves, fodder for a bravo’s blade. Not to mention, Morrgys was an experienced slaver. Corrupt as wormwood and crueler than Maegor, but he wasn’t stupid.

Faintly, Jon heard the creaking song of the oars and the sonorous beat of the drum marking the time. Time stretched on. Jon sought his usual tricks of distraction: reciting histories, houses, banners, and songs. He exercised to burn away the jitter of drawn nerves. It helped. A bit. The light waned. His throat burned with thirst.

At last the door opened to admit one of the Twins. His bald pate gleamed in the blinding sunset light streaming in behind him. Jon crouched, waiting in silence.

“Eat,” he said, in heavily accented Common. A wooden tray landed with a rattle followed by a waterskin on the floor. The lock screeched shut behind him, trapping Jon in silence and darkness once more. He groped in the dark for the food, scooping cold mutton porridge with his bare hands, gulping gratefully from the waterskin. If they were close to Braavos, it wouldn’t be long until they reached Pentos. Once they landed, he’d face his first real fight.              

 

 

_Day Eighty-Nine: The White Wolf_

 

Pentos assaulted his senses as Morbo and the Twins dragged him in irons off the ship. The sweaty press of the throngs, eyes gawking as fresh slaves staggered on solid ground. It felt as if the sea still pitched beneath him. The length of chain between his feet made for a short, choppy stride. He reeled into one of the Twins, who elbowed him hard in the gut. Wheezing on thick air that tasted of sweat and dust and dung, Jon struggled against the irons lashing his wrists tight to his waist. A babble of languages washed over him, the cries of birds, the bray of donkeys, the gibber of monkeys.

The cobbles were hot beneath his bare feet, the sun beat down on his shoulders. With the Watch, he’d lamented that he’d forget what it was to be warm. It never occurred to him he might one day be _too_ warm. _I suppose I need to be more specific in my wishes._ Morrgys rode ahead, swathed in the yellow perfumed silk of a palanquin. Dirty children laughed and threw clods of mud, some with rocks. Rich and poor alike sneered down their noses. Even the meanest among them was better than a slave. Shame burned in Jon’s throat. _I am a free man, even though I’m a Snow. The son of Eddard Stark_. Jon imagined Ghost trotting at his side, garnet-red eyes warding away the press of their stares. It helped.

The sun dipped in the sky as they wended through slums to the fighting pits and training yards. His feet blistered and bleeding, Jon hoped for the cool quiet of a cell. The gleam in Morbo’s eye told him otherwise.

“Maggots, form up! We spar.”

The shame and rage boiled up inside and he was grateful when a Twin twisted the key to unlock the manacles. Morbo tossed a long-bladed spear into his hand. The edge was blunted—Morrgys didn’t want to risk damaging his source of income—but impact could still bruise or break bones if Jon didn’t pull back. That would earn him a beating, or a week without food, but in his current mood, Jon didn’t care. The angry thing inside his chest snarled and growled. He was paired with the Norvoshi, bearded with flowing dark hair. Though older and bigger than Jon, he held the trident gingerly, the net even more so.

Jon spun the spear. He was used to shield and sword, or the bow, but training with Morbo had taught him the flexibility of a staff weapon. Jon edged in a circle to the Norvoshi’s left until the sun was at his back. Any advantage was useful. The Norvoshi gave a testing flick of the net, nearly snagging Jon’s ankle. He sidled back, holding the spear firm in both hands.

“This a fight, not a dance! _Attack_!” Morbo shouted.

The Twin’s whip cracked hard across Jon’s back, opening a red line of pain. He channeled the snarling pain into his mind, his hands. He charged. The Norvoshi broad face split in a smile, casting the net to snarl around Jon’s legs. Jon anticipated it. He hopped back, yanking the net from his hands and cracking the sturdy haft of the spear across his face. The Norvoshi staggered back and cried out, a couple bloodied teeth fragments dribbling from his mouth. The trident was forgotten in the sand. Fierce and hungry for more violence, Jon lashed out again, knocking his legs from under him. The blade sang, flying in an arch toward that fat exposed throat---

“ _Zokla timpa_! Stop.” Morrgys’s voice cut through the roar of blood in his ears. Jon looked down at the Norvoshi and saw the silver in his hair, the fear naked in his eyes. Bile rose up in his throat and he choked on it, along with shame.

“Take the Norvoshi to the healer. He’ll do for the first grouping tomorrow.” A slave untangled him from the net, while another half-walked, half-dragged his opponent to the squat block of cells beyond the training yard. The first events in the fighting pits were bloodsport: men thrown in with animals or chained together to fight a more skilled fighter. Jon swallowed hard. _Tomorrow_. Tomorrow Morrgys would test his mettle. Tomorrow he would kill a man, or die himself.

“Morbo, call the next one. Let’s see what the Wolf is made of,” Morrgys said with that hideous oily smile.

 

There was little relief from the heat in the small hours of the night. His cell was stone with a shelf carved in one wall for him to sleep in. The stone radiated the trapped heat of the sun. His tunic clung to him. The scrape of boots and the clink of ringmail was his lullaby. The thick, humid air made it impossible for him to sleep. Add to that, the looming threat of the fight tomorrow . . . Jon sighed and rolled over.

He studied the pattern of moonlight pared into squares by the iron grate overhead. Gods, how had he ended up here? Three months ago, he was riding with the freefolk to learn what the King-beyond-the-Wall was planning. A year ago, he was Lord Commander Mormont’s steward, wishing to ride in the haunted forest with his uncle. _I’m on the far side of the world and a slave. You may as well give me a crown of bells and call me a fool._

A pair of guards stopped on the wall overhead, blotting out the light. Jon peered up, wishing for something as small as the eating knife on his belt. That would be enough to jimmy the lock on the cell door . . .

“What’re your bets for tomorrow?”

“Vogaro lo Morrgys has many skilled fighters, he’s best of the Astapori lot. I’ve put a dozen silver on that Dothraki Gorro, another five on the Tyroshi who prefers the bravo blade—what’s his name?”

“Tycho.”

“Yes, Tycho. He might be a contender against Gorro.”

“Gorro’s gotten fat and slow. Tycho would poke him full of holes and watch the suet run out.”

“Gorro has thirty-three kills to his credit! How many does Tycho have?”

“Seven. But he’s everything Gorro is not. Young, fierce, skilled--”

“Enough! We’ll see on the morrow who has more gold, eh? The crowds are going to be thick. With all this talk of dragons . . .”

Jon, who listened intently to the talk of possible opponents in tomorrow’s matches, nearly sneered at the mention of dragons. The second guard seemed to be in accord with him.

“Sailor’s lies. You’d be a fool to believe them.”

“It’s not everyday oarsmen and merchants alike agree,” the first insisted.

“The tales are not the same. Dragons in Asshai, dragons in Qarth, dragons in Lazhar, Dothraki dragons . . . each telling differs from the last.” *

“Only in details. All speak of dragons, and a beautiful young queen.” *

Their voices faded as they moved off into the humid dark. Jon rolled over on his stone bench and turned their words over in his head. Gorro had experience and arrogance hand in hand with it, but was perhaps past his prime. This Tycho sounded like a hungry, wicked fighter.

 

Sleep crept over him with a thief’s stealth as he was pondering his strategy. And it was dragons that slipped through his dreams. The same sharp clarity as his old dreams of Ghost. The loss throbbed under his breastbone. _Alone . . . alone_ . . . in the dream, he _flew_. On powerful wings shredding the sky into drops of dew. Empty green land stretched beneath him. Fluffy sheep grazed oblivious of his presence above them. Hunger ached in his belly, his mouth watering for charred hot flesh and thick dark blood. Green fire burst from his black-fanged maw--      

_“Zokla timpa_! Get up!” a Twin growled, yanking on the chain that bound his ankles. Jon half-fell, half-staggered off the sleeping bench, shaking away the dregs of the dream. Part of him wanted to snarl and snap at the small pink thing that would threaten him, burn him in a halo of fire. Jon gulped in great breaths of air, focusing on the cool smooth stone beneath his battered feet.

The sky overhead was still dark, the moon beyond his sight. In the courtyard beyond his cell, he saw slaves being loaded into a donkey-drawn wagon. Jon glimpsed the squat form of the Norvoshi among them. The first events at the fighting pits began soon after dawn. From what Jon overheard, the crowds would be thick even at the early hour as spectators jostled to claim a good seat.

The Twin dragged him by his fetter along the open hall to the bathing rooms. Deep stone baths stood in two rows down a long hall. Open archways were latticed with iron bars. Chained slaves hauled hot water to fill each of the tubs. The rattle of their fetters was so familiar, Jon barely registered the sound.

“Strip and wash. The master wants you clean. That way the crowds can see the blood on you.”

Once alone, Jon peeled off the sweat-stiff brown tunic and sank gingerly into the hot water. The water rose to beneath his chin, some sloshed over the sides as he moved. A dew of sweat pearled on his brow. Gods, when had he last had a hot bath? The heat sank into his bones, making him pleasantly drowsy. Fumbling for the dish, his fingernails sank into soft soap, smelling faintly of lemon. It was a rare pleasure to cleanse himself in silence and privacy. The soap stung unmercifully in his cuts and scrapes, and the chains were awkward and cumbersome, but Jon could bring himself to care. The bath was a welcome distraction to the nerves that now jumped in his belly, now as empty and taut as a drum. Soon the Twin returned leading Morbo and one of the water dancers from the other group.

“Out,” the Twin said, with an impatient tug on Jon’s chains. Jon rose naked from the tub, to the hoots and sneers of the other slaves. The Twin’s hard gaze raked over him.

“The hair and beard are good. The master wants his White Wolf to look like a sunset land barbarian.”

Jon simply glared at him. Familiar hot hate welled up from deep inside. A barbarian to dance to their tune, to entertain with bloodsport. Naked and dripping, Jon was led to separate room stuffed with costumes. Here, a fool’s motley, there a red priest’s scarlet raiment. Odd vestments of armor were found there too—for decoration only, he was told—the crowds came for blood and blood alone. He saw a spiked bronze cap, a half helm with a fish symbol on the brow.  A young male slave—Tyroshi judging by his green dyed hair—shuffled forward, armed with a linen towel. His gaze slid avidly over Jon’s body and Jon felt his cheeks heat in embarrassment. Jon snatched it from his hand and dried himself.

A barbarian’s costume was a white wolf skin draped over his shoulders, red paint carving to fang-like points down the sides of his face and a loincloth. No shoes. No weapons. In the yard among the others who proved their competency, Morrgys paced and preened. Each were dressed in flamboyant costumes. One of the water dancers wore a feather cloak like a Summer Islander, the Hornfoot tribesman was dressed in ill-fitting motley. Morbo wore fringed leather trousers and boots, blue paint twisting in spiral patterns down his bare arms and chest.

“A sunset land barbarian from the far north! _Zokla timpa_!” Morrgys said, his hand draped casually on Longclaw’s pommel. The gleam in his dark eyes was malevolent.

“Are you ready for your first fight?”   

* * *

 *AFOC, GRRM

 


End file.
